A Light
by scarlettwriter11
Summary: John is a soldier. And he must carry on. Post-Reichenbach.


**A/N: I am so sorry. That is all I have to say.**

* * *

A true soldier always carries on.

* * *

_"The first time we met, the first time…"_

Jesus, that was ages ago. Or at least, that's how it feels. I can't really distinguish between the present and the past any longer because both hurt just as equally. On one hand, memories of him are a terrible pounding in my head, and on the other hand, the present is just a stab at my heart, crippling me further. It's nasty either way. But anyway, the first time he and I met…

He was "impressive" to say the least. I mean, with his deductions and smooth movements, his wink as he left the lab. He certainly left an impression on me. He had planted this interest, this yearning to see him again, something that I had previously never experienced with another person before. Sherlock was, intriguing. He left me wanting more. He kicked my legs out from underneath me and replaced my cane with his existence, with his light. Damn him for that.

Damn him for filling in the holes I had furtively ignored. Damn him and his spark that fueled me to escape my pain and start anew. I hate him for that.

Sherlock, God, Sherlock was, well, something else. Why I had put up with him, I don't know.

No, that's not true. I do know, it's just, I don't want to believe it right now. He showed me things that I never thought I could see without feeling pain or witnessing bloodshed. He showed me how to live.

* * *

There will be times when I can sit in my new flat and not think about anything related to the bastard, and those are blessed, sacred moments that I cherish above all other things. But I can only do this if I convince myself I am not John Watson and Sherlock Holmes never entered my life. Then, and only then, can I truly escape the nightmare that was the Fall.

Oh God, how vividly I can _feel_ that moment, but can never truly _see _it. The emotion is there, but the vision is somewhat of a blur. Shapes and falling figures flash through my mind and I can't make sense of it, but the feelings experienced can grip me just as tight as they did then. The bastard, the goddman bastard! I can't even answer my bloody phone without the thought of his stupid 'note'.

"_That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" _

Damn. Him. He couldn't have let me in on his little plan? He had to be mysterious, he had to be fucking clever? After everything that I had ever done for him, after all that I had put up with, he couldn't do me that simple courtesy? No, of course not. Sherlock was always going to be Sherlock. Just because I showed him some sympathy, didn't mean he was going to give me the world, let alone some small, but crucial information. No. Why I ever considered myself that _special _is beyond me. Completely and utterly beyond my comprehension. It's just sometimes, he made it seem I was valuable to him. But I suppose that's what I get for hanging myself on his every word. And when he fell, so did I.

* * *

For God's sake, I am nothing short of pathetic. He was one man. One, unbelievably irritating man! A man who couldn't even trust me as far as he could jump-

* * *

Everything is numb. I mill about my life in a continuous state of nothingness and yet it hurts so much. How can that be? How can I feel nothing, but still feel everything? I know. It's because I cared far too much. Sherlock said never to make people into heroes. He was right. Sherlock was no hero. I am certainly not a hero. I couldn't even stop my best friend from, well, you know.

But this is foolish. This is stupid. I am a grown man, able to care for myself. Jesus Christ, I'm a soldier! And what does a good soldier do? He keeps on going, no matter what. He carries on. He keeps moving past the carnage and focuses on the dim light in front of him because that's all he has left, is that light, and if he can reach that, he can stomach anything. I can reach the light. I can feel its warmth. If not today, then someday. Someday, in the later future, when my cane is the tool of an old man and my hair is one uniform shade of silver. And I'll be able to look back on it all and think, "Those were some of the best times of my life". The best, and the worst.

Yes, I'm mad at Sherlock now. But, that anger will eventually fade and I'll remember everything that that damn man gave to me and I'll be grateful for the time spent with him. But for now, I can't stand to think he left me. For a game. It was just a game Sherlock. A silly game, where men were lost forever and the dead walked the earth because of it. A game. I never much cared for games. Especially now.

* * *

It went past caring. I'm not so stupid that I didn't realize what this, our _relationship_, had become. Friendship didn't seem to cover it. But neither did, God, I can't believe I am saying this; _lovers_. No, God no. It was nothing remotely like that. It was past that. Sure, I loved him, but not in that way. Never in that way. Only in the most basic way and that was that I needed him, and I needed him to be okay, and I needed him to open up my eyes. Trouble is, how was it on his end? What was his reasoning for our closeness? Closeness. Now that I think about it, it didn't seem we were all that close, now, does it? That he would lie to me. That he would call himself fraud and never give me a chance to prove otherwise. I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes. But no longer can I trust him. Not like I used to. But what does it matter? He resides beneath our feet. How ironic. Sherlock: the man who thought everyone to be beneath him, now looking up at all of us. Funny, but, not.

* * *

Whatever I do next, I'll always carry the burden of truth with me. Because Sherlock is not a fraud and I am not a liar. That was Moriarty and Mycroft's job. They were the liars. Sherlock was a conveyer of truth, and I was his translator, forever bound by his words. And now, it is my time to carry on. Because a good soldier always, _always_, carries on. No matter what.

In the end, aren't we all soldiers, struggling from day to day in this godforsaken battlefield? I'd like to think so. My comrades in arms, fighting just as I do. In that sense, I am not alone. But really, I am always alone. Always.

* * *

**A/N: OH GOD, WHAT A TERRIBLE PERSON I AM! Forgive me. I just, the first line came to mind and this just followed. I am so terribly sorry. **

**(I did this in one sitting, so if there are any mistakes or whatever, sorry. But I wanted to publish it because I kind of love/hate it. AGAIN, I'M SORRY.) **


End file.
